


The Toe Sucking Adventures of Ryan Strome

by katwalking



Category: Men's Hockey RPF
Genre: Inappropriate Behavior, M/M, Molestation, Multi, Sibling Incest, oral penetration, toe sucking
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-23
Updated: 2020-06-23
Packaged: 2021-03-04 06:21:41
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,349
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24869059
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/katwalking/pseuds/katwalking
Summary: Ryan Strome knows exactly where his fetishes come from. He's not concerned.
Relationships: Dylan Strome/Ryan Strome
Kudos: 17





	The Toe Sucking Adventures of Ryan Strome

Ryan steps gingerly off the ice. The skin at the back of his ankles feels bright red, raw. The day before, his mother said, “You’re growing so fast,” voice fond, a little misty, as she watched the sales associate fit him with new skates. He’d rolled his eyes. His mom said something similar every other day. Now he wishes he’d taken her advice about bandages.

“Stromer.”

Ryan stopped grimacing long enough to look at the brown-haired man standing next to the bench, one of the new assistant coaches, Johnson. “Yes, sir?” Taylor and Mike push past him on the way to the locker room. 

“Skates giving you trouble, son?” Coach Johnson’s new to the area. His accent’s kind of weird, but he seems nice enough, believes in hands-on instruction. 

“Just need to be broken in,” Ryan says, “new.”

Coach Johnson nods. “Meet me in the trainer’s room. Got to take care of those feet. Can’t have our best player hobbled.”

Ryan’s face goes warm the way it always does with praise. He’s supposed to be in a hurry; his dad is picking him up for once and they’re supposed to be getting pizza before heading home. Hopefully, whatever Coach wants will be quick. “Yes, sir,” Ryan says, dutifully.

The trainer’s room is out of the way, tucked down a quiet hall. Ryan’s only been in the room once when he had a terrible cramp in his calf and Dr. Conner, his old teammate’s grandfather, had patiently worked the muscle until the knot released and Ryan could breathe again. He’d called Ryan, “brave,” and told him to, “eat more bananas.” 

Coach Johnson’s waiting when Ryan pushes the door open. He says, “Stromer,” warmly and, “lock the door behind you, will you?” He pats the exam table in the middle of the room after Ryan locks the door. Ryan wobbles over to sit.

The table’s high enough that Ryan’s feet swing above the floor. “Let’s take a look,” Coach Johnson says. He encourages Ryan to scoot higher up on the table and takes a seat on the rolling stool nearby. He makes a tsking sound once Ryan’s skates are unlaced and his socks are peeled off. “Awful,” he says, fingers gentle on the bruised skin of Ryan’s ankles and toes. 

Ryan expects Coach Johnson to grab some of the smelly ointment his parents usually smear on his scraps and cuts. He’s not expecting Coach Johnson to lift Ryan’s sweaty foot to his mouth and press a wet, open-mouthed kiss to his ankle. Ryan jerks, startled, but Coach Johnson has a firm grip on Ryan’s foot and his leg barely moves.

“What-“ Ryan says and Coach Johnson chuckles. 

“Just like my boy at home,” Coach Johnson says. Ryan shivers a little at the feel of his mouth moving against Ryan’s skin, the warm wash of his breath. “Thinks he’s too old for me to kiss it better.”

Ryan’s mom has kissed a million bumps and bruises. She kissed his forehead before she dropped him off at practice that morning. His mom has never popped his big toe into her mouth and sucked on it in long, slow pulls. “Ugh,” Ryan says, leg twitching. His mouth drops open, a little, as he watches, transfixed, frozen, as Coach Johnson pushes his thick, wet tongue between each of Ryan’s toes in turn.

“These feet are going to make you so rich one day,” Coach Johnson says into Ryan’s instep before he sinks his teeth into the tender flesh. Ryan can feel his heart beating between his legs. Coach Johnson isn’t even holding Ryan’s ankle tight anymore, fingers light, supporting his heel.

When Coach Johnson raises Ryan’s other foot to his spit-slicked mouth, Ryan doesn’t resist.

\--

Over the next year, Ryan figures out exactly how limber he is and that his own mouth pales in comparison to his memories.

\--

Ryan only needs to use peanut butter the first few times to coax Buddy into licking, rough, warm, sloppy between his toes and over the sensitive skin at the bottom of his feet. Buddy appreciates a “good boy” and a scratch behind his ears just as much.

\--

“This is bullshit,” Jack says, mulish set to his chapped lips. A chorus of groans and chirps go up around him. Jack crosses his arms tightly across his thin chest. “Ryan cheated.”

Taylor leans over the bus seat. Light from the passing street lamps throwing shadows across his long face. He pops his gum, obnoxiously. “I can’t believe you’re trying to get out of this. Ryan won fair and square.”

“Yeah,” Brooksy says, “don’t be a little bitch.” A murmur of agreement goes up from the surrounding seats. Everyone’s holding their phones. Lights pointed in the center of their little group, the remains of their card game already cleared away. 

Ryan waits, mouth quirked to one side. It’s only a matter of wounded pride and time. If Jack doesn’t hold up his side of the bargain, his rep will suffer. No one wants to play with a flake on or off the ice. Jack frowns harder, but his arms loosen. Ryan shifts until he’s seated comfortably back against the window, one knee bent, foot on the floor and his other leg extended in front of him across the bus seat. 

“Take my sock off,” Ryan says. He’s already kicked out of his slides. Jack glares at him from across the aisle and yanks Ryan’s sock off his foot. Ryan wiggles his toes and someone snickers. Jack glares some more.

“Who’s keeping time?” Danny asks and there’s some rustling until Tyler says, “I got it. Five minutes.”

An expectant air settles around the group, all eyes on Jack, waiting. Ryan’s already chubbed up in his sweatpants and not even the expected incredulous sounds from the peanut gallery are enough to keep his dick from hardening at the first touch of Jack’s mouth.

Jack jerks back instantly, making a disgusted face.

Aggravation sweeps through Ryan. “Stop the clock,” he says and all eyes swing in his direction, startled. Tyler stops the clock. “Five minutes,” he tells Jack, “five minutes, your mouth, my toes, sucking. Stop trying to get out of it and pay up.”

“Yeah, pay up,” Taylor says, “time to put your money where your mouth is.”

“Toes where his mouth is,” Brooksy says, dry, and giggles erupt again. 

“Shut the fuck up,” Jack says. He shoots Ryan a venomous look before glancing back at Tyler, “Get the clock ready.” Tyler nods. 

This time Jack doesn’t fuck around. He gets a firm grasp on Ryan’s foot, takes a deep, fortifying breath, and seals his lips around Ryan’s big toe. Ryan grunts. 

“Shit,” Danny says. Jack looks up into the light cast by a handful of phones; his cheeks are flushed red and his eyes are very blue. Ryan’s going to get Brooksy to send him the recording.

“Now,” Ryan says, “suck.”

\--

“Hunch Punch,” Jordan says. He’s sprawled out on his back on the leather couch in Tyler’s basement. Tyler’s upstairs raiding the kitchen. Jordan helpfully humps at the air just in case Ryan didn’t get the reference.

Ryan takes another swig of his beer. “Uh, huh.” Thanks to the tournament coming up over Thanksgiving break, everyone’s stuck in town. Tyler, lucky asshole, lives in the area. Even luckier, Tyler’s parents are going to visit his grandmother and somehow got the idea Tyler was a responsible, young man. 

So, of fucking course, Tyler is planning a party and inviting the whole team. 

Tyler clumps back down the stairs holding 2 bags of chips and a bowl of dip. He sets the bowl down carefully on the coffee table and shoves Jordan’s feet off the couch. “Sit up, jerk,” he says.

Jordan laughs and reaches for the chips. “I was talking to Ryan about the punch,” Jordan says. 

“Oh, man, yeah,” Tyler says. “My brother gave me the recipe his frats use.”

Ryan raises his eyebrows. “Does Hunch Punch really require a recipe?”

“If you don’t want it to taste like trash,” Tyler says.

“This is going to be fucking epic,” Jordan says and Tyler high fives him.

The next night, Jordan repeats, “Fucking epic,” as he brushes past Ryan with a giggling blonde girl hanging off his free arm. 

Ryan guesses. For values of epic. He picks his way through the batches of girls listing into each other holding red cups like every movie cliché. Brooksy is, true facts, in the corner flexing for what looks like a pair of twins. 

Ugh. Ryan goes to find a corner to stand in and wait. The beer in his hand is bland and boring, but infinitely safer than the hell concoction Jordan’s calling Hunch Punch. 

It takes less than 2 hours for the first shirt to come off. A girl he recognizes vaguely from school teasingly gropes her friend on the makeshift dance floor and from there it’s apparently a short jump to drunken titty sucking. 

Blood in the water. Delighted shouts go up from the crowd and the debauchery’s on. Ryan spends most of the night watching guys line up to rail some obnoxiously loud chick over the leather couch in the basement in between trips to the kitchen for more snacks and beer. 

“You not interested in getting your dick wet?” Trevor asks. He’s watching the proceedings with an air of envy. Trevor’s a good guy, serious about his girlfriend.

Ryan shrugs. “The night’s young.”

Trevor tips his beer bottle into Ryan’s. “I hear you.” They stand together watching Seth fuck sharp, little gasps out the girl’s mouth. She’s not as loud as before. Tired. Trevor says, “I think she’s about to tap out.”

Sure enough, after Seth shakes and jerks through his nut, she rolls over and closes her legs. A chorus of disappointed groans rumble around the room. 

“Nuh-uh,” the girl says, laughing and shaking her head when Matt tries to coax her back into position. 

Ryan heads back upstairs. Jordan’s sitting on the couch, getting head from a mousy looking girl while making out with her much prettier and blonder friend. Ryan sits on his free side, close enough to feel the heat from Jordan’s thigh. 

Jordan’s dick is pinked up, the head shining with spit when the girl pulls off to lick at his slit. The couch jolts with the jerk of Jordan’s hips and the girl rides the movement, experienced. Ryan reaches out to tuck her hair behind her ear and she glances up at him, startled. She doesn’t stop sucking Jordan’s dick.

“What’s your name?” Ryan asks after she’s swallowed Jordan’s load. Her mouth is swollen, bruised red.

“Kaylee,” she says and Ryan hands her the rest of his beer.

He sees Kaylee later that night sandwiched between Jordan and Mike, biting her bottom lip as they rut between her legs. Her pretty friend is nowhere to be seen. Probably had an early curfew. 

Most of the team spends the night at Tyler’s and bodies litter the floor when Ryan tries to find his way to the bathroom to piss. On his way back to his makeshift pallet, he notices a soft faced girl sleeping curled up on her side. Her mouth is open, drool pooling under her pale cheek. 

Ryan pauses, bare toes cold on the hard-wooded floor. The house is quiet besides the sounds of sleeping, little snorts here and there, the rustle of covers. Ryan tips over and nudges her chin gently with his foot; she doesn’t react.

“Fuck”, Ryan says. He takes another quick glance around the room before rubbing the pad of his big toe against her wet bottom lip. More drool spills out of the corner of her mouth. He tests the sharpness of the ridge of her teeth, rubs his toe against the slick, soft skin of her inner cheek. His presses out and watches her cheek bulge obscenely. 

He fucks his big toe into her slack mouth, adds a second one, until a muted thump and some giggling from down the hall pull him out of his trance. He steps back, dick throbbing in his boxers. The girl is still knocked out, lips a little redder, swollen. Ryan makes his way back to his corner of the room.

\--

“Are you going to train with JT next week?”

Ryan looks away from the refrigerator to where Dylan’s standing next to the breakfast bar. “Why? You coming?” Dylan’s joined him for offseason work outs before. JT thinks Dylan’s little crush is cute. 

Dylan shakes his head. “Can I have a key while you’re gone?”

Interesting. Ryan shuts the refrigerator and leans back against the counter. Dylan’s looking anywhere but at Ryan. Shifty. His eyebrows lift. “You planning a party? Trying to get your dick wet?”

“No,” Dylan says, cheeks turning red. His eyes cut from side to side. 

“You got a girl I should know about?” Ryan presses and Dylan scowls at him, “No. I just want a place to get away while you’re gone.”

Ryan considers this carefully. “McJesus finally said yes to sucking your dick, didn’t he? Remember what happens in Juniors stays in Juniors.”

“Fuck you,” Dylan says, indignant, “can I have the key or not?”

“Not,” Ryan says, easily, and opens the refrigerator again. There’s got to be something in there he wants to eat. He just had groceries delivered two days ago. He’s so fucking hungry.

“Ryan,” Dylan whines.

“No,” Ryan says. There’s nothing to eat in his fucking full refrigerator. He closes the door and starts digging for his takeout menus. He doesn’t feel like putting on real clothes and driving anywhere.

“Just tell me what you want and I’ll do it,” Dylan says, lying, because Ryan knows from experience Dylan always manages to weasel out of his promises. Dylan has to owe him over a thousand dollars at this point and Ryan is collecting as soon as Dylan signs his entry level contract. Bank on it.

“No.” Maybe pizza would be good. Ryan scans the menu. MeatLovers? Supreme? Dylan’s still standing across from him fuming. “What?” Ryan asks just to be obnoxious. 

Dylan throws his hands in the air. “Come on, man, I’m desperate!” 

Ryan raises his eyebrows. “How desperate? Onion soup desperate?” 

Dylan makes a hilariously grossed out face, but says, solemnly, “Onion soup desperate.”

Another type of hunger stirs in the pit of Ryan’s stomach. He crosses his arms over his chest and gives Dylan a deliberately skeptical look. “Okay,” he says slowly, “suck my toes.”

“What?” Dylan yells, “Fuck no.”

“Okay,” Ryan shrugs. It’s no big deal to him. Dylan obviously doesn’t want a key bad enough. He says, “Hey, what do you think about pizza?” 

Dylan frowns at him. “Ryan.”

“Dylan,” Ryan says. “I was thinking about MeatLovers, maybe Supreme.”

“MeatLovers,” Dylan says, automatic, “Are you serious?”

“About pizza,” Ryan says, fumbling for his cell, “absolutely.”

“No,” Dylan says, making a frustrated sound, “about sucking your toes?” Resignation is written all over his face.

“Look,” Ryan says, “this wasn’t my idea. You came to me, asking for keys to my apartment for your little weekend of debauchery. _You_ said you would do anything. I just want some pizza.” And to get his toes sucked. 

“I can’t fucking believe this,” Dylan mutters. 

The swooping in the pit of Ryan’s stomach increases. “You want to do it before or after pizza?” Dylan’s wearing the same expression of every rookie who’s ever had Ryan’s toes in their mouth. “You know what?” Ryan asks, benevolent in his victory, “We could place the order and you could do it while we wait.” He shakes the menu at Dylan. “We’ll order from the closest place.” It’s the middle of the fucking day; Dylan will be on his knees for at least 15 minutes. Maybe 20.

Dylan looks skyward. Ryan waits. Dylan nods. Ryan places the order and keeps his face straight as the girl on the other end of the line says, “We’re really busy, sir. Wait times are longer than usual.” “That’s fine, “Ryan says, and ends the call.

“Living room,” Ryan says. He plops down on his couch and shakes his socks off his feet. “You’re in luck. I took a shower this morning, got rid of all the gym toe jam.” Dylan rolls his eyes again and folds his lanky frame down onto the floor. Dylan’s been taller than him for a while now and Ryan wavers between jealousy and resentment more than he wants to admit. Dylan’s going to go higher than him in the draft. Everyone knows it, but no one’s talking about it. Yet. 

Ryan taps his big toe on the petulant line of Dylan’s mouth. “Open up. I don’t have all day.” Dylan rolls his and deigns to unclench his jaw. Ryan presses his toe in, toenail scraping across Dylan’s front teeth. Dylan jerks back. Ryan huffs. “Look, this was your idea. We can stop right now. I was planning on picking up a few things before going to JT’s anyway.”

Dylan grumbles. Ryan raises an eyebrow and Dylan opens his mouth the next time Ryan raises his foot. Dylan’s mouth is wet and hot. Ryan would bet anything he’s the best cocksucker in their little group of friends. He’s not putting forth much effort with Ryan’s big toe, weak, barely there suction, no tongue action. 

“I have to say, you’re doing a shit job for someone who wants the keys to my apartment and liquor cabinet.” Dylan rolls his eyes. He’s going to hurt something if he’s not careful, but the next suck is firm enough to send tingles down Ryan’s spine. He slouches down, spreads his legs. He fucks his toe in and out to see how Dylan reacts. Dylan rolls with the movement, bobbing his head. Fuck.

Dylan’s eyes are downcast, long lashes casting shadows on his cheeks. He’s wrapped a bony hand around Ryan’s ankle to help control the movement, try to direct the play. “You look like a slut with my toe in your mouth, Dyl,” Ryan says. Red rises up in Dylan’s cheeks. “I bet you’re real fun in the locker room.” 

“Ugh, can you not?” Dylan says. There’s spit shining on his bottom lip and Ryan doesn’t bother replying just pushes his toe back into Dylan’s mouth. He nudges in the second, the third. Dylan’s mouth is big enough to take his whole foot, no problem, but he’s being nice. Give the kid some time to adjust. 

Ryan wiggles his toes. “Lick between them.” Early experiences in life absolutely shape a person and Ryan knows his were far left of normal, but he finds it difficult to believe a Ryan Strome exists who doesn’t get hard at the sight of a slick, wet tongue pushing between his toes. He cups his dick through his sweatpants.

He lets Dylan work in silence, the only sounds disturbing the peace, the spit wet sounds of his mouth. Dylan has fallen into a rhythm, alternating between sucking individual toes and fucking his tongue obscenely between Ryan’s toes. His eyes are closed. Ryan wonders who Dylan’s imagining behind the black of his eyelids. 

The head of his dick is peeking about his waistband. Ryan goes ahead and pushes the band down under his balls. He spits on his palm. Dylan looks up when Ryan starts to jerk it. His eyes widen comically and Rayns shoves his foot deep before Dylan can say anything. Dylan gags, pushing against Ryan’s leg. Ryan strips his cock furiously as Dylan tries to twist his face away. He starts coming the instant Dylan gets the bright idea to bite down.

“Fuck,” Ryan says, hips jerking, eyes squeezed shut. Dylan is still coughing and gagging on the floor. Ryan squeezes the last drop of come out of his dick.  
Dylan punches him in the chest. Ryan grunts, the pain just adding to the aftershocks still coursing through him. “You’re fucking disgusting,” Dylan says, stomping off to the kitchen. Ryan hears the sink turn on.

The doorbell rings. Ryan tucks his dick back into his pants and goes to pay for their pizza.


End file.
